


Show Me Flesh and Bone 'Cause Now I Own You

by EveryDarkCorner



Category: The Harmatia Cycle - M. E. Vaughan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10738020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryDarkCorner/pseuds/EveryDarkCorner
Summary: Before the end of Blood of the Delphi, Sverrin offers Zachary an alternative to suffering under Du Gilles's hand.





	Show Me Flesh and Bone 'Cause Now I Own You

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am a terrible person and I deserve to burn. However, I'd like to point out that I originally wrote this as revenge for Madeleine breaking my heart AGAIN at the end of BotD. So really, this is all her fault.

Yellow light peeked through the bottom of Zachary’s blindfold.  It was too bright; he closed his eyes to it.

            His legs didn’t feel like his own.  They were weak and wobbly, and barely held him up.  The men gripping his arms kept him upright and moving; he stumbled along between them.

            They’d bathed him, down in the dungeons – if it could even be called that.  They threw buckets of cold water over him and scrubbed his skin and hair with rough-bristled brushes.  Scruffy stubble itched his cheeks; probably enough to be an actual beard by now.  They hadn’t let him shave, but they’d given him clean trousers.

            His stomach ached, empty.  They gave him water, down there in the dark, but it wasn’t enough.  Was it over?  No, it couldn’t be.  He still had his mind.  He was sure of it.  Which meant, at some point, they were going to lock him back in that coffin and bury him in the cold and the black—

            He stopped abruptly as his stomach turned, and he retched.  There was nothing in his stomach to bring up, nothing but water, and he held that down with difficulty.  The men holding him tightened their grip and pulled him onwards.  He felt stairs under his bare feet, and stumbled up them.

            Another hallway, and another, and he was pushed through a door.

            ‘Remove his blindfold and leave us.’

            Zachary recognised the voice with a start.  Sverrin.  His heart hammered.  He tried to say his name, but could summon no more than a soft croak.

            Someone ripped the blindfold away, and Zachary recoiled, eyes burning.  He blinked rapidly, seeing only a blur of bright orange.  The men holding him let him go and his legs trembled.  He could barely keep upright unaided.

            Finally, his vision adjusted, and he looked into the face of King Sverrin.  He glanced around and recognised his surroundings: the curtained bed, the dark wood furniture, the soft carpets.  Sverrin’s bedroom.  The room Sverrin died in.

            Why was he here?

            Sverrin arched an eyebrow.  ‘In the presence of your king, it’s appropriate to kneel, Zachary.’

            Zachary dropped to his knees with relief.

            ‘Hmm.’  Sverrin surveyed Zachary, eyebrow still raised.  ‘I’m not convinced DuGilles’s work has had any effect.  You should know he’s distinctly unimpressed.  He didn’t want me dragging you out of there less than halfway through your … alteration.’

            If he’d had a glass of wine, Zachary got the distinct impression Sverrin would be sipping smugly from it.  He was too exhausted to be angry, to exhausted even to answer.  He wanted nothing more than to fall forward on the carpet and sleep.  His head drooped, eyes closing.  He hurt, gods he hurt all over.  It hurt to breathe.

            ‘Zachary!’

            Zachary raised his head with a little gasp.  He blinked up at Sverrin, who glared back at him, eyes narrow as they travelled down his body.  Zachary shivered, although with the fire blazing.  It was much warmer here than in the coffin – uncomfortably warm.  He felt Sverrin’s eyes burning into the cuts and grazes on his skin, the lash marks criss-crossing his back.  His fingertips were bruised purple, blood caked underneath his nails from desperately trying to scratch his way out of the coffin.

            Sverrin huffed.  ‘This is pointless.  Perhaps I should just hand you back.’

            ‘No!’  Zachary’s voice cracked around the word, the first word he’d said in days.  Maybe weeks.  He swallowed, and it was like swallowing sand.  ‘Please, Sverrin … sire … your majesty … please don’t send me back.’  _Don’t send me back into the dark, into the coffin, into the pain …_

            ‘What’s the matter, Zachary?  You don’t like being locked in the cold and dark?’  Sverrin’s eyes were hard.  He turned from Zachary, stalked away, and leaned against the fireplace, arm spread across the mantle.  Zachary didn’t know how he could stand it, to be so close to the searing heat.  ‘Well, you’re in luck.  It was tiresome, waiting for DuGilles to finish his work on you.  You must understand, I was terribly bored.’

            Zachary’s throat tightened.  Sverrin, bored, while we was trapped in a dungeon?  While he was screaming and pleading, tearing his fingers against the underside of a coffin until they bled?  The rage rose, but fizzled and died almost instantly.  He was so tired.  Maybe Sverrin was going to kill him.  He closed his eyes.

            ‘Zachary!  Do you understand?’

            Zachary forced his eyes to open, and raised his head.  He hadn’t even realised it’d begun to droop.  Sverrin watched him from across the room, lips twitching in a smirk.  He bent his elbow and tipped his head to the side, resting his temple in his palm.

            ‘Y-yes, sire,’ Zachary choked out.      

            ‘Good.’  Sverrin’s smile spread, bronze eyes glinting in the firelight.  ‘Because I have an alternative penance for you, Arlen Zachary.’  He curled Zachary’s full name around his tongue, slowly, like he was relishing it.

            Zachary stared up at him, wide-eyed.  Alternative …?  Would this mean he didn’t have to go back in the coffin?  That he could be free?  He half rose to his feet, staggering on weak legs.  ‘Anything.’

            ‘You can stay on your knees.’  Sverrin’s tone was sharp.

            Zachary dropped back on his knees instantly.  ‘Anything.’  His voice barely broke above a whisper.

            Sverrin lifted his head slowly, letting his hand fall and trail across the mantelpiece once more.  He turned away from Zachary and looked at the four poster bed tucked against the wall.  The curtains behind it were drawn over the windows, but through a chink at the top, Zachary could see it was dark outside.  He wondered what time it was.  What day.

            Sverrin drummed his fingers on the mantel.  ‘We’ve fucked here before.’

            Zachary’s eyes flicked back to him.  Sverrin’s brow was furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite remember.

            That was years ago.  Before Sverrin died, when everything was still right.  It was summer, and it was hot, and Sverrin’s breath tasted of wine.  The evening light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, and Sverrin had pressed Zachary into the blankets and whispered, ‘Do you want this?’ against his throat.

            Swallowing, forcing his mind to the present, Zachary whispered, ‘Yes, sire.’

            Sverrin nodded to himself.  ‘Stand up, Zachary.’

            Weakly, legs trembling, Zachary mounted to his feet.  His heartbeat was a dull, continuous ache in his chest.  His hands were slick with sweat.

            ‘You’ll have to stay in these rooms, obviously,’ Sverrin said.  ‘The doors will be locked and guarded.  No visitors.  If you displease me, if you complain, if you _use magic_ … I’ll allow DuGilles to finish his work.  Do you understand?’

            ‘You want to keep me in here?’ Zachary said, wary.

            ‘Well I’m not going to fuck you in the halls, am I?’  Sverrin’s smirk grew positively sadistic as Zachary’s empty stomach filled with lead.  Then Sverrin’s smile abruptly fell.  ‘Did I ever fuck you in the halls?’

            Zachary barely heard him.  A rushing sound filled in his ears, like he was underwater.  ‘No, sire,’ he finally croaked.  It had only happened that once, when Sverrin was drunk and Zachary had laid back, anxious but passive, and let his prince press clumsy kisses to the corners of his mouth and fumble at his hips …

            ‘Good.’  Sverrin’s mouth twisted.  ‘That would be distasteful.’  He folded his arms and regarded Zachary critically.  ‘Your enthusiasm seems to have waned.’

            Zachary felt like he’d taken a bite of an apple and tried to swallow it whole.  It was stuck in his throat, hurting, choking.  He could feel his trousers sticking to his legs.  Sweat in his stubbly beard.  It was too hot in here.  Too hot to breathe—

            _Too tight to move, too tight to breathe.  He could barely lift his arms, couldn’t kick out with his legs.  He screamed until his throat was raw, clawing at the back of the coffin, tears making tracks from the corners of his eyes.  His skin burned with the bitter, biting cold.  There was no air.  His lungs burned, he couldn’t breathe.  He was going to die down here, he couldn’t breathe—_

            Zachary shook his head.  ‘No, sire.  Please … let me stay.’

            Sverrin eyed him, clearly disbelieving.  ‘You may consider tonight a trial run.’  He shifted, raising his head.  ‘You start now.  Kiss me.’

            Zachary took a shaky breath.  He closed his hands into fists and opened them again.

            Sverrin didn’t move.  ‘Zachary.’

            Lurching forward, Zachary came up level with Sverrin.  He glanced at the king’s hands, half expecting a knife to appear out of nowhere.  It had to be a trick.  The moment he closed his eyes, Sverrin would stab him in the back.

            There were no knives.  Sverrin still wasn’t moving, watching him with an expression of increasing impatience.  Stomach tight, hands trembling, Zachary leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips, so quick he barely felt it.

            Sverrin sighed.  ‘Disappointing.  I’ll send for DuGilles.’

            He half turned toward the door, but Zachary leaned in again, heart tight in his chest, grabbed Sverrin and slammed their lips together.  Sverrin was still for a moment, caught by surprise.  But when Zachary curled his fist in Sverrin’s hair, lips moving hard against his, he pushed back.  Zachary felt hands on his hips, and then Sverrin dragged him in, pressing their bodies together.  Zachary felt a hardness press against his leg, and Sverrin moaned into his mouth, and then pulled away.

            ‘Better, Arlen.’  Sverrin took a hand off Zachary’s hip and put it over Zachary’s hand in his hair.  He curled his fingers between Zachary’s and pulled it away.  ‘But I didn’t give you permission to touch me.’

            Zachary stumbled back.  ‘I’m sorry—’

            ‘Shhh.’  Sverrin closed the small distance between them in a single stride, pressing their foreheads together.  ‘I said _better_.  If you can fuck the way you just kissed, I don’t see any reason to hand you back to DuGilles.’

            Zachary leaned in and kissed him again, as hard as before, and let out a soft noise of pain when Sverrin tightened his grip on Zachary’s hand, crushing his fingers.  Every time Zachary closed his eyes, he felt the coffin closing in around him, crushing, and he kissed harder, lips moving, tongue lapping at Sverrin’s mouth.

            Sverrin pushed Zachary backwards, and he stumbled, fighting to keep their lips still locked together.  _If I stop kissing him, I’ll go back in the coffin.  If I stop, I’ll die down there._   Zachary’s gut clenched.

            Letting go of Zachary’s hand, Sverrin grabbed him by the band of his trousers.  He lifted him off the floor a scant inch, and threw him backwards.  Zachary flailed, a cry tearing from his throat, before he landed on the bed.  He’d forgotten it was even there.  All that mattered was Sverrin, and Sverrin’s mouth, and Sverrin’s _alternative penance_ …

            Sverrin was busy unlacing his doublet.  Sitting up, Zachary reached out to help him, but Sverrin put a hand up and pushed him back.

            ‘Stay there!’ he snapped, and Zachary fell back, breathing hard.  He ran a hand up through his hair – it was too long, too wild – and waited, insides twisting and coiling like a snake.  Sverrin shed his doublet, and then his shirt, and then shucked down his breeches before sliding onto the bed on his knees.

            Sverrin knelt over him, naked, and Zachary’s eyes travelled over his throat and broad chest, down the lines of powerful muscles in his stomach, and further, to the dark hair between his hips, and then below that—

            He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, laying flat against the pillows.

            ‘What’s the matter, Arlen?’  Sverrin lowered his head and nipped at Zachary’s ear.  ‘You haven’t come over shy all of a sudden, have you?’

            ‘No, sire.’  Zachary pressed a shaky hand against Sverrin’s chest.

Catching it, Sverrin pulled Zachary’s hand down his body, pressing it hard against his cock.  He let out a low groan, pushing Zachary to move in slow, rhythmic strokes.

            Sverrin removed his hand and Zachary kept going, trying to concentrate on breathing.  Just breathing.  In and out.  Sverrin’s arms were either side of his head and his body was over him, trapping him, but it wasn’t as bad as the coffin.  In and out.  Nothing was as bad as the coffin.  In and out.

            When Sverrin bend to kiss Zachary’s throat, he turned his head to the side and tilted his chin to give him access.

            Sverrin moaned and bit down.  ‘Tell me you want this, Arlen.  Say it.’

            Zachary gritted his teeth.  ‘I want this.’

            Lifting one hand, Sverrin traced down Zachary’s other arm, lying still by his side.  He took Zachary by the wrist and lifted his hand to lay on the pillow by his head, and then put his weight down on Zachary’s arm, pinning him.  ‘What do you want, Arlen?’

            _I want to never see the inside of that coffin again._

Breath sticking in his throat, Zachary realised his trembling hand had ceased to move on Sverrin.  He curled his fingers around Sverrin’s cock.

            Sverrin kissed him, and then bit his lower lip, sharply, so that Zachary gasped.  ‘What do you _want_ , Arlen?’

            ‘I want you to fuck me,’ Zachary said, and tried to make it sound like a moan.

            Sverrin pulled back, a slow grin spreading on his face.  He lifted Zachary’s hand – the one on the pillow – to his lips and drew his tongue along the first two fingers, then put them in his mouth.  He sucked slowly, and finally drew them out.  ‘Then you’d better prepare yourself.’

            Sitting up, Sverrin, gripped Zachary’s new, clean trousers by the hips and yanked them down.  As he tugged them off over Zachary’s feet, he tutted.  ‘Not good enough.’

            Zachary glanced down, although he already knew what Sverrin meant.  His own cock was barely half hard, lying flat against his stomach.  He groaned and fell back against the pillows.  His head was swimming … he was just so tired.

            Sverrin slapped his thigh, hard enough that the _snap_ of palm on skin echoed, and Zachary jumped.  ‘Fix it.’

            Zachary nodded, and trailed a hand down to his cock.  He gripped it, moving in sharp, quick thrusts, barely feeling them under Sverrin’s hard stare.  He closed his eyes, turned his head away, and heard Sverrin sigh irritably.

            No … no, he couldn’t fuck this up.  This was his chance.  His _only_ chance.  Zachary squeezed his eyes tighter and focused on the feeling of his hot palm, on slowing his breathing.  He felt a surge of triumph as it heat spread lower in his body, but then heard Sverrin shift impatiently.  He could do this.  He could make everything better.  Parting his lips, Zachary let out a low moan.  Then another, the second coming easier than the first.  The third was almost natural.  Then he licked his lips and murmured, ‘Sverrin …’

            Sverrin shifted again, and Zachary opened his eyes, barely enough to see through his lashes.  He let another moan build in his throat, and ended it on another groan of, ‘Sverrin …’

            Sverrin was over him in an instant, one hand in Zachary’s hair, mouth pressed against his, tongue moving in slow strokes.  Zachary gratefully took his hand off himself and reached for Sverrin instead.  It was so much easier to touch someone else, to listen to his growls and moans and judge how fast to move, than it was to force his own body to react.

            He had to move his hand away when Sverrin lowered his hips to grind against him.  Zachary let out another soft moan, and didn’t bother to question whether it was real or not.  He bucked his hips up to meet Sverrin.  Last time, this was how it had ended – Sverrin panting over him, too young and tipsy to have any kind of stamina.  Zachary hated it at the time, the awful stickiness all over his stomach, although he’d said nothing about it.  Now, he prayed Sverrin would finish here.  At least it was painless.

            But, as the thought passed through his mind, Sverrin took Zachary’s hand and pulled it down his body.  ‘I’m not waiting any longer.’

            Wincing, Zachary pushed a finger into himself.  Then another.  It didn’t hurt, particularly – only felt strange, stretching and uncomfortable – but then he had only the barest idea of what he was doing.  Hadn’t Rufus said once that you needed ointment for this?

            Sverrin, it seemed, had another idea.  He shifted up the sheets, gripping Zachary’s hair in one hand, and pressed his cock against Zachary’s lips.  ‘Suck.’

            Zachary held back a sound of disgust, schooling his expression.  Just how much did Sverrin need to humiliate him in one night?  He opened his mouth and Sverrin thrust in hard enough to make him gag.

            ‘You can do better than that, Zachary,’ Sverrin said, although he was panting already, fingers tight in Zachary’s hair.  ‘It’s in your best interests to make me wet.’

            Forcing back his revulsion, Zachary leaned in, running his tongue along the underside of Sverrin’s cock, and then curling it over the top, trying to ignore the salty taste already present at the tip of his member.  Most of the skin, at least, was smooth and tasteless.  He listened for sounds of approval from Sverrin, but the king was nearly silent now, head tipped back, breathing hard.

            Squirming, Zachary moved the fingers still pressed inside him.  How did you know when you were ready?  His heart was beating so hard he imagined he could hear it, every pulse thrumming like a drumbeat.

            Releasing his hold on Zachary’s hair, Sverrin pulled back and moved down the bed.  He took Zachary’s leg and hooked it up over his shoulder.  Zachary swallowed, gripping the sheets in both hands.

            ‘This is going to hurt,’ Sverrin said plainly.

            Zachary felt Sverrin’s cock bump against his leg, then press against him.  He took a breath, and then Sverrin thrust forwards, and the breath left Zachary in a scream.

            He scrabbled at the blankets, trying to claw away.  It didn’t just hurt, it _burned_ , a white-hot poker.  Sverrin slammed a hand down on Zachary’s chest, pinning him like a butterfly to a cork board, still fluttering.  Zachary could see the muscles straining in Sverrin’s shoulder as he bent over, the tendons stark in his throat.  His other hand climbed up to Zachary’s throat and pressed down, choking.  Zachary threw his head back, reaching for Sverrin’s wrist with both hands.

            ‘If you _fight me_ , I will throw you back in the _dungeon_ ,’ Sverrin snarled.  ‘Hold still, gods damn you.’

            Shaking, Zachary lowered his hands, burying his fingers in the blankets once more.  Sverrin didn’t loosen his grip on Zachary’s throat, but shifted his hips, drawing out and thrusting back in again.  Tears of pain blurred Zachary’s vision.

            Usually it was Rufus who cried.  Rufus’s name brought a new pain, an ache in Zachary’s chest, but he clung to it.  He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the pain as Sverrin thrust into him again and again was a pleasant thing, something he wanted.  Trying to imagine the hand gripping his throat was Rufus’s, not strangling but caressing.  Trying to imagine this was Rufus’s bed, Rufus’s body.  Rufus wouldn’t hurt him.

            His lungs burned.  Sverrin took his hand off Zachary’s throat and he gasped for breath.  Digging his fingers into Zachary’s hips, Sverrin lifted him up and thrust again, deeper than before.  Zachary whimpered.

            The sound elicited a growl from Sverrin, and then he kept going, faster, each movement tearing through Zachary, worse than the lash of a whip.  Sverrin’s face went red, and then purple, and Zachary could see the muscles in his jaw moving as he ground his teeth together.  The heat inside Zachary built, and he writhed as Sverrin finally came.

            Sverrin turned and slumped down beside Zachary, panting for breath.  Zachary pulled one hand up over his head, burying his face in his forearm.  His chest was tight, his body sore.  As his heartbeat gradually slowed, exhaustion came over him again.  He dropped his arm, weary and hurting.  The bed felt like it was tipping from side to side, like a little boat on the sea.  He thought he heard Sverrin say something behind him, but the king’s voice was distant, echoing.  Zachary closed his eyes, falling backwards …

 

* * *

 

 

Sverrin let Zachary sleep on his bed while he washed and dressed, and then sent for DuGilles.  Zachary didn’t wake until two men lifted him from the bed, and then even then it was slowly, like he could barely bring his eyes to open.

            When he saw DuGilles in the doorway, it was another matter, of course.

            Sverrin sighed as the men dragged him away, lurching and screaming, kicking at their ankles, twisting to tear his arms free.  All the way down the hall, Sverrin heard him, calling out.

            ‘SVERRIN!  SVERRIN, PLEASE!  _PLEASE_!  I CAN DO BETTER!  PLEASE, SVERRIN!’

            Sverrin arched an eyebrow at DuGilles.  ‘You should’ve gagged him.’

            ‘Let him have his tantrum,’ DuGilles waved a hand.  ‘It’ll wear off before long.  I trust your offer wasn’t _too_ enticing, sire?  He does need to believe it.’

            Sverrin snorted.  ‘For Zachary?  It was only more enticing than the dungeon, and I think only barely.’  He shook his head, listening to the echoes of Zachary’s ragged shrieking as he was pulled down the stairs.  ‘Was it really necessary?’

            ‘Oh, certainly.’  DuGilles clasped his hands behind him.  ‘People always have this pesky notion they’re going to be rescued.  I don’t know where they get it, but it takes so _long_ for them to give it up.’  He clucked his tongue, like a mother looking down at her misbehaving child.  ‘Much faster, much simpler, to let them think they had their chance, and lost it.  He’ll break quickly after this, I assure you.’

            Sverrin huffed.  ‘Good.’

            DuGilles bowed and began to walk for the door.  ‘Good evening, sire.’

            ‘DuGilles?’  Sverrin watched as he stopped and turned, thin mouth frowning.  Waving a hand at the bed, Sverrin said, ‘Send someone to change the sheets, will you?’


End file.
